The Greatest Gift of All
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: Perhaps I am deluded; perhaps it's wrong of me to think that telling you tonight will take away the pain of your mother's passing. Perhaps I should not try to replace old pains with new joys. Perhaps there is some merit to grief. But I have already told you that I am selfish, Draco. And, just once, I want to see you smile. /For thefirstservant.


**A/N:** Fic number 3 for the Gift Giving Extravaganza!

For the lovely tfs, aka thefirstservant, who may not have expected quite so much angst and sadness. I'm sorry in advance, lovely. Random note: I love Stor as a nickname for Astoria, as _stór _is Irish for darling. The more you know, eh?

Thanks to Jess for betaing!

* * *

It's one of those days where it's so cold that I am breathing out icy clouds. The raindrops fall around us like soldiers, tiny casualties in nature's war against itself. The clouds are as grey as your eyes, and I wonder if this means your eyes are always clouded or that the sky is mocking us today.

I think it might be the latter.

I reach for your hand. It is cold; your fingertips are red and icy. I want to tuck them under my jumper, but I know you will frown. So I content myself with running my hands along yours to warm them, but I'm doing so in vain.

I am searching your face. You are looking right back at me.

Your eyes are hard. I've noticed that. They are usually soft as melted steel, liquid and languid but painfully sharp; today they are solid steel, bruising my gaze with each metal blow.

"I love you," I say, but I might as well say it to the wind.

You drop my gaze, turn your head back to the distance.

"Merry Christmas, Draco," I whisper, but, again, the wind is the only one who listens.

I check my watch.

9:12 am.

It's time.

I grab the Portkey, a crumpled newspaper that has grown soggy in the rain, and shove it under your fingertips.

And then it's 9:13 am and we are falling home.

* * *

This happens every Christmas.

Your mother's grave is usually empty except for a single narcissus, left by your aunt Andromeda. The wind is always too sharp, the clouds always too dull, the ground always too cold. We kneel in the grass for ages anyway.

You tell her all about your new job. I tell her about not being able to pay the rent on our old flat. You tell her about us starting a family. I tell her about the miscarriages. You tell her about her house being released by the Aurors. I tell her about it being sold to pay off your father's debts.

This is how we are. You are still trying to impress the mother who lies stone cold in the ground, her iciness seeping into our kneecaps, numbing our skin for all the time we waste talking to the dirt. I am trying to be more realistic, and you understand that.

You don't interrupt me when I speak. I don't interrupt you. We both know there are things your mother needs to know, good and bad. I'm glad you understand that.

I know it's hard for you. That's why I try so very hard on those days, Draco. I smile as warm as I can, wrap my arms around you, kiss your throat and whisper sweet nothings, sweet _everythings_, but you are impassive.

Sometimes, I wish I meant as much to you as she does.

It's selfish, I know. But I love you, Draco. I do.

* * *

"Tea?" I ask, and you shake your head gently. "Draco, please. You're freezing."

You don't protest when I shove the warm mug into your hands. You don't react at all, other than the almost involuntary sigh as your icicle fingers melt around the heat of the tea.

I watch you.

I watch you a lot. You are an unusual man, a careful, precise man. But you are loyal to a fault, familial pride and honour burning in your pure, pure blood, and I am sometimes scared that I don't know what is whirling in your mind on days like this.

"Let's turn on the wireless," I say, and flick my wand towards it. Music fills the room and something in your eyes starts. You sip your tea, steam pooling under your chin.

"Thank you, Stor," you say quietly, and I know that you are back to normal.

For now.

Only for now.

* * *

That night, I think it's time to tell you.

I'm not sure what it is, this time, that makes me want to tell you so...so _formally_, so _officially._ Maybe taking your last name has brought about a change in me. Maybe you are rubbing off on me.

This time is not like the others, Draco. I can feel it.

There is something in my chest that whispers to me, telling me that this baby is going to live.

You are watching the flames flicker in the fireplace, a glass of Firewhiskey in your hands. The weight of the box is heavy in my palm, but I know that I must do this tonight.

Perhaps I am deluded; perhaps it's wrong of me to think that telling you tonight will take away the pain of your mother's passing. Perhaps I should not try to replace old pains with new joys. Perhaps there is some merit to grief.

But I have already told you that I am selfish, Draco. And, just once, I want to see you smile on Christmas Day.

"Draco?" I say tentatively, and you turn your head towards the doorway.

"Why are you standing there?" you say, patting the sofa next to you. "Come sit down."

I do. My knees are shaking and my hands are clammy, and I say, "Merry Christmas." Again. Just once.

Your smile is sad and soft, an echo of your old happiness.

"Merry Christmas, Stor," you say quietly, placing the glass down on the coffee table. You look down at your hands. I wonder if it's so you don't have to look at me with tears in your eyes.

"I have a gift for you," I say, and I'm shaking again.

"For me?" you ask, and I can tell you feel guilty. For a split second, I am sorry. "I thought we agreed we wouldn't - "

"I couldn't help myself," I say, allowing myself a grin. "You don't need to get me anything. This is for both of us."

I hold out my hands, palms up, and you take the box from me. It's small, the wrapping paper plain, but I know you will like it.

You unwrap it carefully, slowly. You've unwrapped it backwards. I want to laugh, and I want to cry, and I want you to turn it around, but you are staring at the back of the picture frame, unmoving.

"Go on," I say quietly. "Have a look."

You do, and I can see your hands are shaking.

I can see the exact moment it registers with you. Tears spring to your eyes and you just stare at it, lip shaking.

The frame is pale blue, decorated with tiny painted-on broomsticks and even tinier Golden Snitches that zoom around playfully. The inscription at the bottom says _Daddy's Little Boy_in blocky, childish handwriting. The picture inside the frame shows our son, almost nothing but a tiny grey blob, but I can see his little arms waving, his feet kicking. _Our son._

My hands hold tight to my stomach.

We have never made it this far before. We've never gotten to the scan. We've never even gotten to arranging a hospital appointment before – before it happens.

"How – how long?" you mutter, your eyes never leaving the frame.

"Twelve weeks," I say, and guilt swarms in my stomach for not telling you sooner.

"How long have you known?" you ask, and you look at me with such _pain_ in your eyes. My guilt doubles, triples, knots my stomach and pains my chest, and I realise that you have been waiting for this as much as I have. "Why didn't you tell me?" You are looking down again. I reach for your hand. You are strangely cold.

"I – I didn't want to worry you. I knew it would be hard for you. This time of year always is," I breathe, scooting closer to you, so that your body warms my skin. "I didn't want to tell you in case – in case I lost him."

"_Him,_" you say, and it's the first real, honest, _genuine_ smile I have seen from you in weeks. "We're having a boy."

"We're having a boy," I say, and pull you closer to me.

Your kiss is slow and sweet, and I can feel the joy, the excitement, tingling in your bones.

"A boy!" you laugh into my mouth, and I rest my hands on either side of your face.

"Our boy," I say. "Our son."

"Our _son._" Your eyes are searching mine now. This is the most alert I've seen you all through the holidays, the most _alive_ I've seen you since – since the last time.

"He's strong," I say. "I know it. He's going to stay here, Draco. We're going to meet him."

And then you are smiling against my lips again, caressing my sides, my hips, my stomach, so tenderly I think that I will melt in your hands.

"I love you," you say, and, for the first time, I know that you mean it with all your heart.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, Astoria," you whisper into my ear, and your hot breath on my cheek is the first thing I know that morning.

"Where is he?" I ask, tongue sleep-heavy, eyes still closed. Your hand rests on my waist, and I can feel the cool metal of your watch. "Time s'it?"

"He's still sleeping," you murmur. "It's almost ten."

I feel my chest swell at this – it is the first Christmas morning that we've spent together where the cold, empty graveyard and that marble slab with your mother's name haven't dragged us from our warm bed at seven o'clock.

"What time will we - ?" I ask, unsure what to say, what you will think.

You kiss my cheek with your warm mouth, and my skin tingles. You have changed so much. But you haven't changed at all – you've changed _back. _Back into the Draco I knew, the Draco I fell in love with.

"Eventually," you say, and I love you more than anything for giving yourself this chance to move on.

"There's always tomorrow," I say.

I feel you smile against my skin. "There is, isn't there?" you say, and then you are hauling yourself from the bed. "I'll get Scorpius. You can spend the morning in bed."

"I love you," I call as you walk out the door.

Your head pops around the doorframe, eyes bright and beautiful, smile burning on your lips. "I know, Stor," you murmur. "I love you, too." Then you are gone again, singing Christmas carols as you wake up our son for his first Christmas, and I hug my pillow a little tighter.

It is cold outside, but there is no rain this year.

And I know then that we will be okay.


End file.
